Demon Called Deception
by darkbird36
Summary: Chase, Foreman, a crazed gunman, and a hostage situation. Or, the doctors work out their differences the hard way. CHAPTER SEVEN NOW UP
1. B&E

TITLE: Demon Called Deception

AUTHOR: Darkbird36

SUMMARY: Chase, Foreman, a crazed gunman, and a hostage situation. Or, the doctors work out their differences the hard way.

RATING/WARNINGS: M - contains naughty language and drug use. Later chapters will likely contain violence, more naughty language, and more drug use. Please use caution in reading

AUTHOR'S NOTE: My first House MD fanfic! I live for reviews. Hint hint. I wrote this out of frustrated desperation due to a near-total lack of Chase character development in the show, as well as little-to-no exploration of the relationship between Chase and Foreman (I don't mean slash, but you go ahead and read what you want into it :) This is a pretty off-canon story, in that its focus isn't primarily medical. I tried to keep the characters true to canon as much as possible. I hope to post chapter 2 tomorrow, so send me encouragement to hurry it along if you like!

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"I can't believe that House has us breaking into her apartment before he even gets the tox screen back," Chase griped, craning his neck to look up and down the empty hallway of their latest patient's apartment building.

Crouched in front of the door, gently probing the lock with a paperclip, Foreman scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Seriously? You're _surprised_ at something _House_ did? Come on, man, you know he's still pissed at you for ratting him out to Volger."

Chase glared, stuffing his hands in his pockets defensively.

"That was months ago. Plus, you know he's pissed at _you_ for acting like a sod the whole time you were supervising him."

"Well," Foreman ground out, darting an annoyed look in the Australian's direction, "We've established that House is pissed at us both, hence the B&E. Now move – you're blocking my light."

Chase shuffled wordlessly out of the way, allowing the wan light from the window at the end of the hall to reach the lock. A few seconds later there was a faint click and Foreman stood, smirking triumphantly.

Despite his resentment over House's frequent references to his criminal record, Foreman still felt somewhat proud of his ability to pick a lock. He knew better than to say so, of course. He and Chase had been walking a thin line lately, both pushed to the limits of their ability to deal with House, and with each other. House thrived off confrontation, and as such was the master of his domain. Cameron was just too bloody _nice_ to bicker with. So Chase sniped at Foreman, and Foreman bitched at Chase.

"Are you gonna come inside and help me get this over with, or are you gonna stand there while I do all the work," He asked sarcastically, holding the door open expectantly. Chase ignored him, brushing past him lightly and into the dim apartment.

"Woah," he exclaimed, one hand coming up to cover his nose and mouth, "This place smells like a bloody cesspool!"

"Well, I think it was obvious it wasn't going to be the Ritz from the state of the building in general. Unfortunately not everyone can afford to live in first class accommodations like you," Foreman said dryly, closing the door gently behind him. Chase glared at him, that infuriating, petulant rich-boy look that he hated so much.

"Yes, well, poverty isn't an excuse for slovenliness," he snapped back, moving towards the kitchen.

"Like you're an expert on poverty," Foreman grumbled, heading towards what he assumed was the bedroom.

"Look for drugs first," Chase called from the kitchenette, and Foreman grit his teeth.

"Yeah," he yelled back, "'Cause the poor black woman with seizures and intracranial bleeding is obviously a junkie!"

"I know what strung out looks like - Jackie Herbert was strung out. And have you not _seen_ this place? If House had just _waited_ on that tox screen he could have saved us a trip."

Foreman purposefully ignored him, unwilling to admit that Chase might be right. It was probable that Jackie _was_ an addict – but the intensivist was always so quick to assume that people were drunks or junkies. It was endlessly annoying to him how goddamn _pompous_ Chase could be.

"Aha," came the triumphant cry from the kitchen, severl minutes later. "Got it!"

Rolling his eyes, Foreman reluctantly walked back to the living room. Chase was holding up a battered shoebox, a victorious smirk on his lips. He pried back the lid so that Foreman could see the contents. There appeared to be several baggies of white powder, a dingy pipe, and three half-full syringes of an unknown liquid.

"Great," Foreman snapped sarcastically, "Now can we please-"

He was interrupted by the _snick_ of the door being unlatched behind him. He saw Chase's eyes widen in sudden apprehension, and had just enough time to turn around before the door swung open to reveal a very large, very pissed looking man.

"What the _fuck_," he snarled, his face going red. The hand still on the doorknob clenched so hard that the knob actually popped halfway off the door.

_Oh, fuck…_

"Now, hang on a moment," Chase started in that annoying, pretentious tone, holding up his other hand in a placating gesture, "We're doctors from-"

"I don't give a fuck _who_ you are! You're trying to steal my stash!"

"Sir, please-" Foreman attempted to intervene.

"Shut the hell up," the man growled, stepping all the way into the apartment and slamming the door behind him. From the corner of his eye, Foreman saw Chase start to reach for his pocket, and, no doubt, his cell. The man obviously saw, as well, because he took several menacing steps towards the Aussie.

"Stop right there, Pretty Boy," he growled, reached into the pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a handgun. Chase's face blanched, and his hand swiftly resumed it previous position in the air.

"Okay, okay," he said gently, and Foreman felt as though someone had injected his guts with ice water, "I'm sorry. Look, there's obviously been a mix-up. You – keep this," he extended the shoebox shakily towards the man, "And we'll just be getting on our way, alright?"

The man laughed, and Foreman could hear the instability in just that momentary sound.

"You think I'm gonna to let you go? You-" he gestured at Foreman with the gun, "Over there with your boyfriend."

Keeping his hands up in a gesture of docility, Foreman edged slowly over to his colleague's side.

"What're you going to do," Chase asked softly, and Foreman wanted to punch him and scream _stop talking to the gun-toting madman!_ Apparently reading his mind, the man grit his teeth and jerked the gun towards Chase again.

"Shut up! _Shut up!_"

Chase's head dropped slightly and he flinched, his eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun. The gunman was mumbling to himself quietly, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. The diagnostician in Foreman noted that he was sweating profusely and his pupils were dilated. He was grinding his teeth. This man was obviously jacked up on _something_.

"Look," Chase tried again, "People know where we are. Just- take this stuff and go."

The man's eyes widened in a combination of sudden anxiety and rage, and he closed the distance between the doctors and himself quickly.

"I said_ shut up,_" he bellowed, pressing the barrel of the gun to Chase's forehead. The young Australian flinched violently and squeezed his eyes shut, sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip.

"Okay, okay…" the man mumbled to himself, pulling the gun away from a relieved looking Chase, "We're going downstairs. They can't find us in the basement. Too much concrete, can't hear through it…"

Chase shot Foreman an alarmed look, clearly broadcasting _this guy's nuts_ with his wide eyes.

"Move!"

The doctors complied, moving wordlessly towards the door. Once in the hallway, Crazy Guy still behind them with the gun, they were prodded into the stairwell and down several flights of stairs. Foreman kept hoping that someone, _anyone_, would see them and call for help. But the stairwell was empty, and he suspected that even if they _had_ encountered another person, this was the type of neighborhood where things like this simply went unseen.

They finally arrived at the bottom of the stairwell. There was only one door, a faded red sign proclaiming _Maintenance Only._ Somehow, Foreman doubted anyone even approaching maintenance had been down here in a long, long time.

"Open it," the man said gruffly, and Chase, still holding the shoebox in one hand, pushed the unlocked door open reluctantly.

A blast of musty air hit them in the face, and Foreman couldn't help but think that this was going to be the place he died. And damn it, he did _not_ want to die in a cold basement with a spoiled, affluent white boy.

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A/N: Chapter 2 tomorrow...


	2. Boxed In

A/N: I know I said I would post this tomorrow, but I was encouraged by kind feedback and got it done tonight. **Warning: this chapter contains violence and drugs** (but you should know that already if you read the warnings on chapter 1)

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Chase tripped slightly on the uneven floor of the basement as he passed the threshold, biting back a curse as the still-fresh memory of the gun against his forehead resurfaced. Behind him, he could hear Foreman following him into the dark. Unsure what he faced, and unwilling to proceed blindly, he pasued. Forman bumped into him, a solid, warm, mass, and Chase was almost _grateful_ for the contact.

Their captor swore incoherently, and Chase could hear him scrabbling for something on the wall. Sudden light flooded the room and he grimaced, squinting at their surroundings. They were in a large concrete room, cluttered with dusty boxes and broken down furniture. A large water heater squatted in the far corner and several corroded, leaking pipes ran overhead.

"Move," the man ordered again, and he must have prodded Foreman with the gun because his coworker stumbled into his back abruptly. The unexpected force jostled him, and the shoe box of drugs slipped from his hands to land on the floor with a thud.

"Goddamn it," the man behind him screamed in outrage, and he felt Foreman being shoved to the side before a huge, meaty hand landed on the back of his neck.

"You little fucker!"

"I'm sor-" he tried to apologize, but before he could get the words out he was tossed effortlessly forward onto the floor, his hands and knees scraping painfully on the dirty concrete.

"Pick it up," the gunman ground out, and when Chase dared to glance up at him his eyes were rolling madly and his teeth were bared. He caught a glimpse of Foreman, looking alarmed and angry, picking himself up slowly off the floor.

"Don't look at me!"

The man punctuated the words with a hard kick to Chase's stomach, and all the air in his body seemed to _whoosh_ out of him in one gust. He wheezed painfully, his arms collapsing so that he rested on his forearms. This was quickly getting more and more out of control, he realized, desperately trying to draw air into his starved lungs.

"Pick it up!"

Unwilling to risk another blow, Chase forced himself up onto his knees and gingerly gathered up the box and its semi-spilled contents. A few of the baggies and one of the syringes had fallen out, and he placed them deliberately back into the box, being careful of the needle.

"Now stand up," the man ordered through gritted teeth, and Chase hurried to comply. His stomach ached fiercely where he'd been kicked – the gunman was obviously on some sort of upper – there'd been a lot of force behind that kick.

"Move forward. Don't – don't fuck around, understand? I'll kill ya…"

Chase had no doubt that their captor would do just that without a second thought. He kept him eyes down and his grip on the box firm as he and Foreman stumbled deeper into the musty room. When they reached the far wall, the man gestured for them to sit against it. As they were preparing to do so, a sudden scuffling came from their right. The gunman gasped, muscles and veins bulging in his neck, and swung the gun towards the sound.

"Come out, you fuckers," he screamed, his eyes wild, "I'm not gonna let you take me again!"

Chase exchanged a quick glance with Foreman, and was alarmed to see a calculating, determined look in his coworker's eyes. Bloody hell, he was going to try something stupid and reckless and get them both killed. Chase shook his head adamantly, but it was too late.

Foreman launched himself at the distracted gunman, putting considerable force behind his attack. He collided with their kidnapper, who grunted in rage and shock and squeezed the trigger. The shot was unbelievably loud in the closed-off room, the bullet thwacking into a stack of old, mildewed magazines. Chase was distressed to see that Foreman's attempted tackle hadn't even knocked the man off his feet. Foreman was trying to choke the man with his forearm, but it was painfully obvious that whatever the guy was on was giving him the upper hand.

"Fuck," he spat, flipping the lid off the box hastily and grabbing a syringe. Judging by the light amber color, he had guessed earlier that it was most likely heroin. He was no help physically to Foreman – he was half the man's size, for heaven's sake, and about half as big around. He could only hope there was enough in the syringe to counteract the effects of whatever else was coursing through this lunatic's viens.

The gunman was easily dislodging Foreman's hold on him as Chase plunged forward with the syringe, his co worker' face full of alarm as the man turned and pistol-whipped him across the temple. Foreman dropped instantly, and Chase could actually _see_ his eyes roll back as he lost consciousness.

He was literally inches from injecting the man when he turned on him, face almost purple with rage. Spit was foaming around his mouth and tendons in his jaw and neck twitched uncontrollably. He swung out one massive arm and caught Chase in the shoulder, easily deflecting his attack. Chase saw the floor rushing up to meet him for the second time in less than ten minutes, and then he hit with a painful thud, his head bouncing off the concrete. A fiery, piercing pain flared in his abdomen and he gasped and rolled weakly onto his back.

He had only a few second to process the sight of the hypodermic sticking out of his stomach, an inch to the right of his navel, the plunger completely depressed. Then the gunman was screaming in rage and kicking him. A warm weakness rushed through him, the most intense feeling of relaxation and pleasure he'd ever felt. The blows he could distantly feel raining down on him didn't matter. Foreman, bleeding from a head wound five feet away and unconscious, didn't matter. He felt as though he were sinking into the floor, away from the distant pain in his body and the fading realization that he was most likely going to die. Then the world grayed out and everything stopped for what felt like a long time.

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A throbbing, incessant pain in his skull brought Foreman back to awareness, and he groaned in protest as the world came flooding back. After a moment, he dared to open his eyelids a crack. The dim light in the basement seemed overly harsh and he moaned again and squeezed his eyes shut. Nausea boiled in his gut, and he rolled weakly to his side in case he vomited. The floor seemed to tilt under him.

Nausea, vertigo, he pried open a lid again – yup, blurred vision. His head felt sticky with blood, and his skull throbbed in time to his heart. He definitely had a moderate-to-severe concussion. He could only hope there was no intercranial bleeding. One of the downsides of being a neurologist in a situation like this – he could think of hundreds of ways in which his body might be permanently damaged, a hundred ways he might die before ever getting out of this basement.

A fuzzy memory of attacking the gunman drifted into the forefront of his mind. Obviously, he had failed in his efforts to overtake their captor. There was something else he should be worried about… Chase. He forced his eyes open again, a little alarmed to realize that they'd closed without him noticing. He was facing the long expanse of the basement floor leading to the only way out. The gunman was seated against the door, convulsively running his hands through his hair and mumbling incoherently. The shoebox was on the floor next to him, the gun still clasped in one sweaty hand. He didn't seem to see Foreman, or didn't care. Either way, it seemed that he was lost in his own fucked up world for the time being.

Gathering his strength, Foreman rolled in the other direction, gulping back bile as the movement sent another wave of vertigo through him. It took a moment for his vision to clear, and when it did the nausea surged back with a rush of panic.

Chase was sprawled out several feet away from him, his face turned away. There was a syringe jutting from his abdomen, and it was empty.

"Oh, shit," he gasped, pulling himself up onto his hands and knees. The floor tilted again, but he ignored it and crawled unsteadily to his coworker.

"Chase," he said softly but urgently, slumping into a seated position near the Australian. There was no response, not even a twitch. Foreman reached out a shaky hand and rested two fingers on Chase's carotid artery. His coworker's skin felt unnaturally cool and clammy, but after a tense moment he felt a sluggish pulse throb under his fingers. He counted the beats, watching the second hand on his watch with bleary eyes. After ten seconds he had only felt Chase's heart beat seven times, for a total of 43 beats per minute. Way too low. His respirations were way down, as well, his chest barely moving as he breathed.

Sighing, Forman carefully pulled the needle from Chase's belly, applying gentle pressure to the puncture site. He tossed the hypodermic away from them in disgust. Chase would be lucky if he didn't contract hepatitis or HIV from the needle, assuming he survived the contents of the actual syinge.

After a moment, he tugged Chase's obnoxiously teal shirt from the band of his pants (who the hell had taught this kid to dress?) and lifted it to inspect the injection site. There was a small, neat hole where to needle had gone in, an ugly bruise beginning to form around it. There were several nasty looking contusions forming over his ribs and belly, the clear shape of a boot coalescing on his side. Feeling anger burn in his chest, Foreman gently palpitated the abdomen and was relieved to feel no unusual firmness. It didn't seem as though there was any internal bleeding. There was, however, a broken rib and at least two bruised. Crazy Dude had obviously kicked the shit out of his coworker.

Chase moaned low in his throat and his eyelids fluttered.

"Hey," Foreman urged, tapping his cheek lightly, "Come on, man, stop being so fucking lazy and wake up."

Chase's eye's cracked open slightly, a sliver of blue visible under each lid. His hand twitched weakly where it lay on the concrete and his head lolled towards Foreman. It was apparent that he wasn't actually aware yet. Foreman placed a hand on the intesivist's forehead, frowning at the coolness of his skin, and used his thumb to pry up Chase's eyelids. They were all iris – an alarming amount of blue surrounding tiny pinpricks of pupils. The man was _loaded_.

"Damn it," Foreman whispered, letting Chase's eyes drift shut again. It was pretty obvious that Chase had been injected with heroin – anywhere between 75 to 150 milligrams. Depending on the purity, that could easy be a lethal dose to someone who didn't use. And Chase was a pretty small guy – something Foreman usually took perverse pleasure in teasing him about. There was nothing in the least bit funny about it now, though.

There was nothing he could do to help his coworker in this basement. Crazy Dude was still mumbling away over by the door, twitching occasionally. He seemed completely out of it, but Foreman was certain that any attempts to subdue him or escape would be met with deadly force. Assuming that he could even stand on his own, let alone carry the unresponsive Australian. The only thing he could do was wait, and hope that Chase didn't die before the guy crashed, or decided to kill them both.

_Damn it, House. We are so even after this is all over,_ he thought bitterly, leaning against a nearby box to watch Chase's shallow breathing. _Next time you want a B&E, you can do it yourself._

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A/N: Thanks to those of you that reviewed. It encouraged me to get chapter 2 out quicker. See how that works? Feedbackmore fic. Pretty simple math, actaully. :) You get the idea.


	3. Dazed and Confused

A/N: Here's chapter 3. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! It's always appreciated. There will most likely be a few day's lapse until my next post, as I'm going away for Labor Day weekend starting tomorrow.

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Foreman wasn't sure how much time had passed when Chase began to stir again. He'd been keeping a close eye on his coworker's pulse and respirations, concerned about how low they were but relieved that they didn't seem to be getting any worse.

The first sign that the Australian was waking up was a little bit of restless movement, his head rolling to the side slightly, blonde hair falling over his face. His hands twitched and he moaned.

"Chase," Foreman prodded, shaking his shoulder a little. His own head was killing him, and he'd had to fight to stay awake despite an almost overwhelming need to close his eyes.

"Mmmph…" Chase responded, a small crease forming in between his eyes.

"Come on, man, wake up. If House catches you sleeping on the job, he'll shove his cane where the sun don't shine," Foreman joked, knowing what a brown-noser the intesivist could be.

To his surprise, the threat worked and Chase opened his eyes. His gaze drifted over the ceiling for a moment before coming to rest on Foreman's face. He blinked in confusion.

"F'man?"

"Yeah. It's me."

"Where…" Chase trailed off, shifting restlessly and trying to sit up. Foreman put a steadying hand between his shoulders and eased him to a sitting position. Chase wobbled for a moment, then apparently managed to find his equilibrium.

"Do you remember breaking into Jackie's apartment," he asked softly, darting a quick glance at Crazy Dude, who appeared to be rummaging through his box-o-fun.

Chase's brow furrowed slightly, and Foreman thought he looked very much like a kindergartner trying to solve a long division problem.

"Yeah," he sighed finally, nodding his head unsteadily.

"You remember the big, pissed-off, jacked-up maniac that took us hostage?"

Chase followed Foreman's eyes to the gunman by the door. His eyes, still ridiculously dilated, widened and he nodded again.

"We tried to take him down, but it didn't work. You got stuck with one of the syringes. I'm pretty sure it was heroin," he paused, taking in the glassy-eyed look of the man before him. "You must feel pretty strange right now, huh?"

Chase frowned at him for a second, then grinned drowsily.

"Feel good, actually…" he sighed, and Foreman rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, you're a regular party animal."

"House says I'm a wombat. Not a party animal."

"Okay," Foreman admitted, amused despite himself and their precarious situation. "Not a party animal, then."

"Used to be," Chase acknowledged, a contemplative look on his face.

"Wild and crazy times at the yacht club, huh?"

"No," Chase insisted, frowning a little, "Just trying to get away from everything for a while. Worked for mom…"

Foreman repressed the urge to say something snide in return, a little baffled by the Australian's comments. He had to remember that Chase was zonked off his ass, and most likely not in control of what he was saying.

Over by the door, Crazy Dude let out a hysterical sounding laugh and appeared to be striking up a conversation with a nearby cardboard box.

"Listen, Chase – we need to come up with a plan here. I know you're a little… off right now, but this guy is seriously off his nut. He already kicked the crap out of us both without batting an eyelash, and I think he's getting ready to freshen up his high."

"You're hurt," Chase said, apparently just noticing the crusted blood on Foreman's head. He reached out a shaky hand to touch the wound, and Foreman jerked back.

"Don't- just, don't touch it, okay?"

"I'm a doctor," Chase insisted, and Foreman couldn't help but chuckle.

"Yeah, Chase, I know. But I'm the neurologist, remember? And this is a head wound. My area of expertise."

"'Kay…" Chase sighed, leaning back beside Foreman and closing his eyes.

"You need to stay awake," Foreman urged, nudging his shoulder. "Come on, talk to me."

"Bout what?"

"I don't know – anything. What was it like growing up Down Under?"

Chase opened his eyes and rolled his head blearily towards Foreman, frowning petulantly.

"Hard," he said after a moment, his eyes rolling aimlessly in their sockets. Foreman felt an irrational surge of bitterness, memories of his poverty-stricken childhood drifting in his concussed brain.

"What, the neighborhood kangaroo beat you up or something? Come on, man – you've had a privileged life, and you just take it for granted."

Chase jerked forward, his face flushing and his eyes narrowing.

"You think you know everything about me, but I'm not- not-" he sputtered and stopped, one hand drifting to his stomach. Foreman felt a surge of guilt and concern – he'd pushed too hard, let his concussion and their hopeless situation get the better of him.

Before he could apologize, Chase leaned forward and retched between his outstretched legs.

"Shit," Foreman hissed, grabbing at the back of Chase's shirt when it appeared he would topple forward. He should have expected this – heroin often caused nausea, especially in those unaccustomed to using it. Chase moaned and gagged again.

"Take it easy," he said gently, "breathe through it, man."

He eased Chase back against the wall, noting the miserable expression on his coworker's face. It was unnerving, really. He was used to seeing only Superficial Chase – annoyed, concentrating, preening – not open, vulnerable, like he was now. Somehow Foreman felt guilty for seeing him this way, as though he'd inadvertently seen the man naked. He knew Chase was a control freak in his own way – most doctors were – and he was sure his coworker didn't want him seeing this much of the real person under the façade.

"You don't know what it was like," Chase insisted, his eyes watery from vomiting.

"I know," Foreman admitted, his head pounding.

"No! You don't," Chase insisted, his hands clenching into fists. "You just look at me and assume. Everyone does. Just assumes… and it's easier to let them think it…"

"Assume what?"

"'M a rich white pretty-boy," Chase mumbled, his eyes starting to drift shut again.

"Well, you are rich, you're definitely white, and if you ever repeat this I will kill you, but you are pretty… pretty," Foreman prodded. If keeping him pissed and indignant would keep him awake, then he Foreman could play that game, easy.

"I'm not rich," Chase insisted, opening his eyes enough to glare.

"Did they change to definition of rich? Do you have to own your own continent now to qualify as wealthy?"

"My dad was rich. Not me."

"Well, your dad died, and you're an only child…"

Chase scoffed.

"Didn' leave me anythin'. 'S funny –he was always good at leaving…"

It wasn't the answer Foreman had been expecting, and for a moment they were both quiet.

"That why you two were so tense when he came to PPTH? He left you and your mom?"

"Hmmm.."

"Sucks, man."

They were silent again, Chase shivering slightly, his eyes at half-mast.

"F'man," he asked softly, "What's gonna happen to us?"

"I don't know," Foreman admitted, his gaze drifting back to Crazy Dude by the door. "I don't know."


	4. Bugs

A/N: I'm ba-aaaack! Had a nice little VaCa out of state, just returned last night. Now, as promised, the next chapter – enjoy!

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The floor was tilting lazily under Chase as he sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Foreman. He was starting to feel less euphoric - more anxious. He felt uncomfortably warm, restless, and his skin itched incessantly.

"Hey, Chase – you okay?" Foreman asked, pausing from his securitization of Crazy Dude to look the intensivist over.

"Don't know," Chase answered shakily, and was dismayed at his own lack of self-control. Under normal circumstances, he would never admit weakness or uncertainty to Foreman. But whatever was in his system seemed to have jumbled all his defenses. Thoughts popped into his head and out of his mouth before he could filter them properly.

It was bloody unnerving.

Nausea roiled through him again.

"You're coming down," Foreman observed, his mouth set in a grim line.

Chase nodded silently, looking away as a wave of paranoia and shame washed through him. He didn't want Foreman to see him like this – to see _him._

He scratched at his arm absently, the crawling sensation increasing as he itched.

"Hey, man," Forman said, his voice softening a little, "Stop that."

He reached out and gently pulled the Aussie's hand from his arm. Part of Chase noted that he'd left several puffy red scratches on his forearm, but he really didn't care.

"It itches," he moaned, hating the petulance in his voice. "Feels like… bugs."

A sudden, horrible thought occurred to him –

"Foreman," he gasped, jerking his hand away and clawing frantically at the sleeve of his shirt. "What if there _are_ bugs, under my skin? Oh, god –"

Pure, animalistic panic surged through him and he panted in terror. Everything else in his muddled brain was washed out by one desperate thought – _have to get them out!_ He dug the nails of his right hand into the delicate skin on his left inner wrist, feeling his pulse rocketing under his fingertips.

"Chase," Foreman said urgently, grasping Chase's wrists and pulling them apart. "Stop! There aren't any bugs, damn it!"

Chase was alarmed to hear himself sob. He pulled uselessly against his coworker's hold, muscles shaking with the unsettling mix of god-knew-what and adrenaline.

"You've gotta stay cool," Foreman insisted, "Crazy Dude's a real jumpy fellow right now. If you lose it on me and freak out, I don't know how he'll react."

Chase darted a look at their captor, who had already noticed the activity and was staring at them with suspicious eyes. He forced himself to breathe, clenching his hands in frustration. Foreman loosened his hold a little, and when Chase didn't try to pull away and scratch again, he let go completely.

"Good," he said softly, sitting back.

Chase let his fisted hands slide off his lap, tipped his head back against the boxes.

"I can't do this," he said faintly, "My dad was right about me."

"That's bullshit," Foreman replied, arcing a brow at him. "You _can_ do this. You have to. And if you weren't capable of handling intimidating situations, you wouldn't be a doctor, let alone one of House's subordinates."

That got a small, shaky smirk in response. Foreman sighed and leaned back, chancing a nervous look in Crazy Dude's direction. The gunman's attention had moved away from them for the moment, and Chase felt himself relax just a little.

"What did you mean about your dad being right about you?"

Chase's mind pulled up the fuzzy memory automatically, and his mouth once again betrayed him by blurting out the truth.

"He told me that one day I would buckle under the pressure. Said I was an embarrassment."

"Jesus," Foreman grumbled, his brow furrowing a little. "That's harsh."

"The worst thing was, everyone else expected me to do great things. I had brilliant parents, wealth, a private education."

He laughed bitterly.

"When I did something well, or even exceptionally well, it was only living up to an expectation – not a real accomplishment. But my dad- it was never good enough. And I guess he got tired of it, 'cause he left. Then it was just me and Mum, but she was too drunk to even be aware of me most of the time."

He stopped himself, suddenly aware that he'd just spilled his family secrets to a man he most days considered competition.

"With me," Foreman said evenly from beside him, "It was the opposite. Everyone around me expected me to fail. People don't want a poor black kid out-doing them in med school. A professor even told me to drop out, save myself a few thousand bucks. I had the highest grade in his class, and he still thought I would fail."

"But you didn't fail," Chase argued, "You proved them wrong. I've never proved anything – only disappointed people. My dad, House – I betrayed him to Volger, and he'll never trust me now."

"Why _did_ you run off to Volger," Foreman asked, staring at him intently.

"I knew House was going to fire me," Chase responded, shame filling him. "I couldn't stand the idea of my dad being right about me. I thought it was better to feed Volger useless information than to fail again."

Foreman grunted thoughtfully, folding his arms.

"He must have hit me in the head harder than I thought, because I can almost understand why you did it," Foreman admitted. "But I'll deny it to the grave if anyone asks after today."

Chase managed a small smile, but it quickly turned to a grimace as a painful cramp pulled at the muscles in his stomach. He felt sticky and sweaty – flushed.

"Uh, this is bloody terrible," he panted, tugging at his collar to loosen it. Despite the fevered temperature of his body, goose bumps prickled the skin of his arms. His eyes felt watery and his nose was starting to run. He discreetly swiped a sleeve over his top lip, feeling disgusting and contaminated.

"Try to stay calm," Foreman urged, and despite himself Chase felt a swell of irritation.

"I'm fucking trying, aren't I," he snapped, the muscles in his legs twitching and jerking involuntarily.

"Well try harder," Foreman snapped back, his concerned expression replaced by exhausted anger. It felt like days since this had started, days since they'd slept or eaten or felt safe.

Chase squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dampen his renewed anxiety before it overwhelmed him again. His hands and feet felt numb and a sudden iciness flooded his veins. His heart seemed to slow frighteningly for a moment, and he thought he was losing consciousness. Then his pulse surged rapidly, racing and irregular. He gasped and jerked forward, his hand flying to his chest. Foreman was talking to him, his voice firm and concerned and just beyond his ability to comprehend. A familiar hand pressed two fingers against his neck for a moment, then dropped to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly.

"Chase," he called insistently, giving him a gentle shake. "Calm down – you're okay – it's just a response to the withdrawal."

Chase managed to focus on Foreman's face, his heart mercifully slowing to a more normal pace. He opened his mouth to reply, to apologize for snapping, but before he could form the words a looming figure appeared behind Forman.

"They're talking to you, aren't they?" Crazy Dude said coolly, clicking the safety off on his gun. Foreman whirled towards the voice, his hands instinctually rising at the sight of the weapon. "Bugs-" the gunman continued, his composure slipping. "- listening in with their bugs. I heard you talking about it."

Chase flinched as the man stepped forward, the gun barrel unwavering.

"Now – what are they telling you?"

The gun swung to the right, straight at Foreman.

"Tell me. Or your friend dies."

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A/N: Evil, _evil_ little plot bunnies! Torturing you with a cliffhanger after a long weekend without updates! Nasty rodents… (I blame them entirely!)


	5. And Then There Were Two

A/N: A couple POV changes in this chapter. So far I've kept to one POV per chapter, but I've strayed a little from that here, so forgive the discrepancies. :)

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Foreman couldn't look away from the gun, couldn't stop himself from staring down the inky length of the barrel to where he imagined a bullet gleamed in the chamber. He'd been around guns before, but he'd never been this intimately close with the business end of one.

"Tell me. Or your friend dies," the gunman demanded. _He's not my friend,_ Foreman's brain protested silently. But as soon as he had the thought, he was questioning it. Were they friends? He wasn't sure anymore.

Chase glanced anxiously between the gun and Foreman, and he could see the barely suppressed panic in the intesivist's eyes. The poor bastard had been through the wringer – they both had – and it was clear the Australian still wasn't in possession of all his faculties.

"I- I…" he stuttered, casting a desperate look at Foreman.

"Don't lie, _don't lie!_" Crazy Dude screamed, the gun swinging erratically between the two doctors.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Chase pleaded, dropping his chin and raising his hands in submission. Foreman couldn't help but note that when he was scared, Chase sounded a lot more… Australian, the accent more apparent.

"Tell me," Crazy Dude repeated, a barely concealed threat in his voice.

"They- they said they know where we are," Chase stammered, his face tightening as though he expected to be struck.

Crazy Dude ground his teeth, his free hand coming up to rub desperately at the back of his neck.

"I knew it, knew it…" he mumbled, letting out a panicked whine.

Foreman shot Chase a 'what-the-hell-did-you-do-that-for' look. Chase shook his head slightly, face grim.

Crazy Dude paced back towards the door, gun still clenched in one hand.

"Get up," he ordered, frantically piling everything back into the shoebox. "We're not staying here."

Foreman glanced at Chase, beginning to understand the intensivist's logic.

"Come on!"

Foreman staggered upright, the world tilting around him as he wobbled to find his balance. Beside him, Chase was pulling himself upright on the boxes, shaking visably.

"You can't take us with you," Foreman protested with sudden inspiration. "They can track us. If you take us with you they'll be able to find you no matter where you go."

Crazy Dude's eyes widened in alarm, then narrowed in suspicion. The gun came up again, and for a terrifying moment Foreman thought he'd gravely miscalculated. Then the gunman swore and turned, running toward the door. He barreled into it shoulder first and it swung open against the stairwell with a bang. For one glorious second, Foreman thought it had worked – they were free.

But Crazy Dude paused just outside the open door.

"Can't have you following me," he mumbled to himself, searching for something in a nearby box.

"We won't follow you, we promise," Foreman insisted, but the man was already pulling a length of chain from the box, a heavy padlock dangling from the end. Beside him, Chase staggered back a little, his expression alarmed. But Crazy Dude didn't approach them with the chain – instead, with one last look, he slammed the door shut. Foreman heard the latch engage, then the muffled clinking of the chain.

After another few tense moments of silence, Foreman dared to move to the door. Knowing it was useless, he tried to open it anyway. It shifted in the frame when he pulled, but was securely chained from the outside.

"Well," he said, surprisingly calm. "At least we got rid of Crazy Dude."

Chase gave a small, slightly hysterical sounding laugh behind him.

"Yeah," he agreed, "that bloke was a real downer."

Foreman turned back towards his coworker, sighing.

"I guess we have some time to kill," he stated, looking around. "Might as well see if we can find anything useful down here."

Chase nodded, looking pasty and unsteady.

"Don't worry," Foreman reassured, "House has to have noticed we've been gone too long – he'll want to find us and yell at as, and you know there's no hiding from him when he wants to chew you out."

"Yeah," Chase smiled, beginning to paw trough some old boxes. "He's gonna be pissed."

xXxXxXxXxXxXx

"Cameron, where the hell are the pretty boy and the dark one?"

House glowered, leaning against his desk and tapping his cane in annoyance.

"They're not back yet?"

"Oh, no – they came back hours ago – I just thought maybe you'd wanna play a fun little guessing game! Of course they're not back."

"I don't know," Cameron pouted. "I haven't heard from them."

"Never send a Wombat to do a man's job," House grumbled, limping from the room. His underlings had been gone all day, and he was beginning to become upset. If something had happened, he'd have to find two new ducklings and break them in all over again. It would be terribly inconvenient.

Arriving at Wilson's door, he rapped his cane against the glass. Wilson appeared at the door a moment later, looking annoyed but unsurprised. House didn't even let him open his mouth-

"Be ve-wy, ve-wy, quiet. We're going Duckling hunting," he proclaimed in his best Elmer Fudd, then turned sharply and limped down the hall, a bewildered Wilson trailing behind him.

xXxXxXxXxXxXx

Chase was halfway through examining a box of old motorcycle parts when the nausea returned full force. His already aching stomach muscles contracted again and he vomited the little bit of bile he'd managed to retain since the last time he was sick. He still felt drugged, but it was becoming more and more apparent that he was coming down. Every minute that passed seemed to reveal another bruise, twinge, or pain that the opiates had masked before. He vaguely remembered Foreman saying the gunman had kicked the shit of them both – he was beginning to understand that statement, now.

"Get sick again?"

Chase moaned, flinching a little at the sudden voice behind him. He heard Foreman moving closer, but still jumped when the hand landed on his shoulder.

"Easy," Foreman said softly, moving two fingers to Chase's carotid artery. It was surreal – Foreman touching him, reassuring him. He was aware enough to realize it was odd, unusual. In all their time working together, they had always avoided any unnecessary contact – physical or otherwise. In one day they had spoken more than they had in the last year.

"Your pulse is a little high, and you feel too warm. I think you should try to get some rest," Foreman said evenly, extending a hand to help him up.

Staggering to his feet, Chase felt a surge of dizziness and his vision grayed out at the edges. For a disconcerting moment, he lost all sense of orientation – then steady hands grasped his biceps, grounding him.

"Whoa, there, cowboy."

Foreman's voice sounded muffled. The hands on his arms lowered him gently to the floor, and when ass hit cold concrete they pressed his head down between his bent knees. The world slowly began to coalesce around him again, and he drew in several deep breaths.

"A little too quick, huh," Foreman said genially from nearby.

"Guess so," he responded, bringing his forearms up to rest on the tops of his knees. He noted blearily that there were four angry, red fingernail gouges on his inner left wrist. For some reason, they made him feel sick and frightened.

"Stay here," Foreman urged, standing slowly. "I'll try to find something to rest on."

There was still a lot of dried blood on his face, and Chase felt guilty for forgetting that his coworker had a head wound. But before he could ask if he was alright, Foreman moved off into the shadowed part of the basement. Chase could hear him rummaging, cursing occasionally.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when Foreman returned, and he was alarmed to realize he had started to drift off. Foreman was carrying a bundle of faded clothes, his face smeared with dust and cobwebs.

"Best I could find," he said, dropping the armful on the ground at Chase's feet. "Looks pretty clean, considering."

Chase reached out and pulled a large blue Boston University sweatshirt from the pile, sighing in contentment as he pulled it carefully over his head. Despite Foreman's statement that he was running a fever, he felt chilled. The thick fabric was blissfully warm and he shivered as he pulled his arms inside the shirt.

Foreman was looking at him in what he could only guess was concern. Chase ignored him, not sure what to do with his coworker's newfound interest in his well-being. He was just too tired to care.

He pulled a small bundle of clothes toward him, patting halfheartedly at it before curling up and resting his shoulders and head on it. The doctor in him belatedly remembered his friend's concussion, and he roused enough energy to ask, "Are you gonna be alright?"

He was asleep before he ever heard an answer.

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A/N: Thank you to everyone who's reviewed – you guys keep me going. I'd love to reply to everyone individually, but between work, class, and replying, I wouldn't have any time to actually write! So thanks again – you rock!


	6. Fathers, Mothers, & Sons

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting. I promise a quicker update soon! Thanks again for the great feedback - you know who you are. ;)

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Foreman shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease to stiffening muscles in his back. He was perilously close to crashing, but determined to stay awake. As a neurologist, he knew the danger of sleeping with a concussion. It was difficult, though. With the door chained and no cell phone reception in the basement, there was nothing left for them to do but wait. And the inaction was grating on him.

Next to him, Chase slept on. With his arms pulled inside the sweatshirt and his face relaxed, he looked ridiculously young. Foreman thought back over the course of their captivity, trying to process the many pieces of Robert Chase that had been revealed.

He had always pictured the Australian growing up in an affluent home with cookie-cutter, successful parents. Country clubs, polo, selfishness and ease. _Bring the Benz around, Alfred. Pass the Grey Poupon, Darling_. But the picture painted by Chase's drugged contemplation was entirely different. He tried to imagine it – young Robert, growing up as an only child with an absent, uncaring father and an alcoholic mother. It was difficult to assimilate with his original assumptions, to say the least.

Poor communities often suffered from a form of deliberate blindness towards the terrible things that happened within them. Although he had never really considered it, he supposed the same could be said of wealthy communities as well. Chase could very well have gone to the country club, played polo, and maintained the illusion of leading a privileged, easy life without anyone ever questioning it. Just as Foreman had never questioned his own assumptions about the intensivist's history.

Thinking about it now, though, it fit. The way Chase glorified House, always trying to please him. The way he maintained a safe emotional distance from others. The insecurity that led to him to betray his most important relationship in order to save it. Robert Chase had been a little like a cardboard cutout from GQ. Carefully groomed and postured to project the image of a rich, white pretty-boy. And nothing else. Chase had said it was easier just to let people assume, but Foreman suspected that Chase wouldn't be able to open up even if he tried. If it hadn't been for the drugs, Foreman would never have known anything about the man's past. He would have gone on, sure that Chase fit neatly into the role he'd created for him.

Now that he had the real story, he wasn't sure what to do with it.

It felt wrong to change his opinion about Chase because he'd had a fucked up life. It wasn't right to base a relationship on reaction to someone's past. But wasn't that what he'd been doing, acting superior and defensive because he assumed Chase had been given everything he had on a silver plate?

He thought about what Chase had said earlier – that everything he'd done in his life had already been expected of him. It was true that growing up with society expecting you to fail wasn't easy. But the silver lining had been the sense of triumph and confidence he'd felt every time he'd proven them wrong – the satisfaction of exceeding the limits others imposed on him. He tried to imagine the inverse – struggling to meet impossible goals with no discernable reward except for the absence of failure. Having family react to your accomplishments the way they'd react to you cleaning your room – something required of you but unworthy of celebration. No wonder Chase acted like an ass-kisser sometimes. He'd done nothing but try to be good enough his whole life. And he was still trying. The annoying, self-promoting attitude of a spoiled brat were suddenly

something else entirely- a desperate hunger for approval from someone who'd been trained all their life to please others.

It was unnerving to him – that he could be so wrong about someone he was sure he had pegged. It made his head hurt – there was too much new information to absorb in one day, even without a concussion.

"Penny for you thoughts," a raspy voice offered, interrupting his thoughts. Chase was pulling himself into a sitting position, rubbing blearily at his eyes.

"Wonderin' when House is going to get here, planning on exactly how to tell him off when he does," he lied, smiling good humouredly. Chase scoffed.

"Tell 'im next time he asks you to do a B&E you'll bust a cap in his ass. He already thinks you're a delinquent. He just might believe it."

Foreman chuckled, both at the image it conjured as well as the Aussie's prim pronunciation of ghetto slang.

Something Chase had said earlier flickered in his brain.

"Speaking of delinquency, I wanna hear about your party animal days Down Under," he grinned. Chase looked bewildered and a little put off, and Foreman remembered that he'd been completely loaded when he'd commented on the subject earlier.

"You said you were a party animal when you were younger," he clarified. "What'd you mean?"

Chase actually seemed to blush a little.

"I – uh – experimented some when I was in high school," he said awkwardly. Foreman gave him a pointed look.

"Okay, okay – a lot. I was a pot head, did a little coke, some acid. The usual stuff. But I never did heroin or crack or anything like that," Chase admitted, looking uneasy. Foreman made a non-committal noise, thoughtful.

"Look," Chase sighed, "I was really unhappy, okay? I mean, I know it's not an excuse, but I was tired of being responsible. Tired of taking care of my mum, cleaning up after her when she was wasted. I paid all the bills, took care of all the household responsibilities, while she disappeared into her own hazy little world. She was willing to throw away her life, her career, and her family for her addiction. It didn't seem to matter if I did the same. I swore I was done being the adult in my family."

He looked down at his hands, his face carefully blank.

"What changed," Foreman asked curiously, "I mean, why'd you stop?"

"My mum died," Chase said evenly, looking up again. "Gave herself liver cancer, needed me to take care of her. So I cleaned up, was responsible again. After she was gone, there was no one left to rebel against. Just didn't seem worth it anymore."

"I'm sorry," Foreman said, and he meant it. He thought of his own mother.

"My mom, she's got Alzheimer's," he admitted. "physically she's not too bad. But it's like she's dying. There's just less and less of her every day. Every time I go to visit her, I wonder if my mother will know who I am."

"I understand," Chase said softly, looking directly at him for the first time during the conversation. Foreman nodded. He was certain Chase _did_ understand. They were polar opposites in so many ways – light and dark, rich and poor, hell – they had grown up on opposite sides of the globe. But somehow, there were similarities. Hardship was hardship, no matter who you were.

And they had both been unquestioningly shaped by it.

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"You're going to feel oh-so badly for refusing to give me a piggy-back ride when my leg gives out and I tumble down these stairs," House griped, panting as he heaved himself up the dirty stairs of their patient's apartment building.

"I guess I'll just have to find a way through the guilt, then," Wilson replied dryly, propping open the stairwell door as they reached the correct floor. House made a face at him as he hobbled into the hallway. He scanned the hall, looking for the right apartment, and felt a twinge of unease as he took in the still-open door of number 2G.

"Wilson."

He jerked his chin toward the open apartment, already limping toward it. Wilson followed closely. Inside, they took in the dirty, dim appearance of the apartment, as well as the partially dislodged door handle.

"As indelicate as Foreman can be sometimes, I have a hard time believing that a neurosurgeon would botch a lock-picking _this_ badly," House admitted, fingering the splintered wood.

"Someone else did it," Wilson agreed. "And I have the sinking feeling that Foreman and Chase where here when they did it. I think we need to call the police."

"Are you simple or something," House demanded, moving further into the apartment. "What do you expect me to say? _Oh, hello, Officer. I seem to have misplaced two of my underlings, and I believe they may have run into a spot of trouble while **breaking into** a patient's home. Could you send a couple of bloodhounds, please?_ Now make yourself useful and search the bedroom."

Wilson gave a long-suffering sigh and moved wordlessly into the bedroom. A few minutes later, both having found nothing useful, they rejoined one another in the hallway.

"They can't be far," House surmised thoughtfully. "Chase's car is still out front."

"They could have been taken in another vehicle," Wilson speculated.

"I realize that Foreman is a sharp dresser and Chase has a pretty mouth, but why would a total stranger whisk them off in a car in broad daylight? They're still here," House declared confidently.

"So where do you hide two doctors in an apartment building?"

"You'd go up," House mused, staring up as though he could see through the ceiling to the roof, "Or down."

He gazed thoughtfully between the floor and the ceiling for a moment, considering.

"Does this building have a basement?"

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A/N: House is on the case! Woo hoo!


	7. The Door Opens

A/N: A thousand apologies for the unforgivable lapse in posting. Unfortunately, Real Life took precendence over fanfic for a while. But I'm back (mostly) and will hopefully be finishing this story soon.

Thanks to everyone who continued to encurage me to post - bree1387, you're review is actually what motivated me to finish up this chapter. The story had sort of drifted to the back of my mind, and when I got my little email alert for your review, I kind of went "Oh, yeah! I have to finish that up..." So thanks :) Apparently begging DOES work!

* * *

They needed to get out of there.

Soon.

Chase was looking bad, and Foreman wasn't sure how much longer he could remain cognizant enough to look after him. The intensivest had stopped talking to him about an hour ago, instead curling on the pile of clothes and shaking, eyes clenched shut against painful muscle cramps and spasms.

Foreman's head pounded mercilessly, nausea churning in his gut. His eyes began to slide shut, and he fought against it.

If he passed out now, there was no telling what would happen to them both.

The sound of muted voices from beyond the door drifted into his awareness, and suddenly it wasn't so difficult to stay awake.

"Chase," he prodded, struggling to stand. "Someone's here."

Chase moaned a little and blinked his eyes open blearily, but didn't give any indication that he had understood.

There was a muffled, annoyed exclamation from the stairwell, followed by a softer, patient drone.

"It's House and Wilson," Foreman said excitedly, and relief washed over him so suddenly he thought he might pass out.

Managing to stay upright somehow, he staggered to the door and pounded weakly on it with his fists.

"House! Wilson! We're in here!"

There was some scuffling, and then the unmistakable, if muffled, voice of Gregory House sounded through the barrier.

"You really blow at hide-and-go-seek, Foreman! If you tell us where you are it really sucks all the fun out of it!"

Foreman found himself laughing giddily with relief and fought to suppress the hysterical-sounding reaction.

"Chase, we're getting out of here," he laughed.

There was no response, not even a groan this time, and when Foreman turned to look the Aussie was dead to the world, pale and sweating. Somehow, Foreman didn't think he was sleeping.

"House," he shouted, staggering back to Chase's side, "Hurry!"

* * *

House snapped his cell phone shut, cutting off the annoying 9-11 operator mid-"please stay on the line". Really – did she not understand that, as a doctor, he was much more qualified to handle the present situation than a glorified telemarketer?

"Go ahead, Wilson," House urged sardonically, trying to ignore the surge of foreboding invoked by Foreman's slightly panicked cry. "Use your healthy, nubile young body to bust this door open and let we cripples rest a moment. Those stairs were obviously designed by someone who loathes and detests invalids."

"Forgetting for a moment that you just called me _nubile_," Wilson replied dryly, "I don't think we're getting through these chains without some sort of bolt cutters."

"Would a key to the padlock suffice, Nancy Drew?"

House gestured toward the battered brass padlock, where some idiot had left the key jutting from the lock.

"I suppose it would," Wilson admitted reluctantly, snapping open the padlock and hastily drawing the chain back through the door handle. With the chain removed, he was able to shoulder the door open and step inside, House close behind him.

The room stunk of mildew and vomit, and House wrinkled his nose in distaste. A wan bulb illuminated the cluttered basement and the hunched form of Foreman, bending over a figure on the floor.

It took him only a moment to deduce that it was Chase, but the man he saw lying prone before him was a far cry from the usually well-groomed intensivest. He looked pale and sweaty, his hair plastered to his ashen forehead in long strands. House could see his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, and he appeared to be unconscious.

"I let you out of my sight for one afternoon…" House muttered, trying to squash an annoying twinge of concern.

"What the hell happened," Wilson asked in a shocked tone, crouching to take Chase's pulse.

"Patient's boyfriend busted us in her apartment. Dude was messed up on something, probably PCP."

Foreman's voice sounded uncharacteristically rattled.

"He brought us down here, kicked the shit out of us, shot Chase up with what I'm pretty sure was heroin, and left."

"Wait a minute," Wilson interjected, "Did you say _heroin_?"

"So the Aussie's doin' smack now, huh? Didn't see that one coming."

Ignoring Wilson's disapproving stare, House painfully bent to assess his underling's condition.

"His pulse is high – 120 bpm," the oncologist said lowly, "I think he's in shock."

Frowning, House lifted Chase's nearest hand and peered at his fingernails.

Sighing, he dropped the Australian's hand unsympathetically, lifted Chase's shirt, and pressed firmly on his abdomen. He did his best to ignore the heavy mottling of bruises and boot-marks, but couldn't help wondering how the hell this had all happened.

Chase moaned and House's frown deepened.

"Tachycardia, bluish fingernails, and a rigid abdomen. He's bleeding internally," he announced, grimacing as he straightened. "We called an ambulance when we heard you yell. They'll be here soon."

Foreman nodded, looking dazed. Wilson was examining a particularly dark contusion on Chase's side and frowning. He shot House an intensely concerned look.

"In the meantime," House demanded, shifting his gaze to Foreman, "I want you to tell me what happened. All of it."

"Yeah," Foreman agreed, blinking sluggishly. "Sure thing, Greg."

Then he sighed, his eyes rolling back in his head, and dropped bonelessly to the floor.

A stunned looking Wilson reached over Chase's torso to check the neurologist's pulse.

"Did he just call me _Greg_?"

"We're going to need another ambulance," Wilson announced, ignoring House's question.

Maybe he shouldn't have hung up on the 9-11 operator, after all.

* * *

A/N: I know, it's short, but more soon! 


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